Lamb to the slaughter

Dear Diary,

I know, this is going to sound seriously unbelievable, but whatever I am about to write is true, a hundred percent true. It’s not that I…….wanted that to happen……it just did. Trust me, I didn’t wish for it to happen.

I killed my husband today.

That’s it. Plain and simple. I killed Patrick Maloney. It was pretty cold-hearted of me to say this so……straightforward, isn’t it? But still, it was nothing, nothing compared to what he had done to me……..it was unforgivable…….

As usual, I was seating on the chair, doing my sewing as I waited for my husband to come back from his work. It was five, and like any other days, I heard the tires on the gravel outside, and the car door slamming, the footsteps passing the window, the key turning in the lock. Sure signs of my husband arriving home. I put away my sewing and stood up to kiss him as he walked through the door. It all seemed to be so normal, so perfect.

My heart was beaming as I said hello to him and took his coat from him. I strolled over and made two drinks, . I returned to my seat.

It was such a blissful time of the day, as I watched him seat down in front of me, holding the tall glass in his hand. I smiled to myself as went back to my sewing. I loved this man, I loved the intent, far look in his eyes when they rested in her, the funny shape of the mouth, and especially the way he remained silent about his tiredness, sitting still with himself until the whiskey had taken some of it away.

My husband’s job had always worn him out. After all, he wasn’t as young as before. The police station had always tired him out. It was quite a surprise to me when he drank half of the whiskey down in one gulp. At that point of time, I wasn’t really very worried. I simply thought that he just had a busy day. He stood up, and walked slowly over to get another one. “I will get it!” I jumped up to help him get it, but he just shook his head and told me to sit down. Puzzled, I sat down.

When he came back, I noticed that the new drink was dark ember with the amount of whiskey inside. He must be very tired, to have drink that strong. I returned to my sewing. I heard the ice cubes clinking against the side of the glass

I decided that he was too tired to eat out, so I asked him whether he wanted to eat in, but he declined. I moved uneasily in my chair, still watching his face. “But…….but you must eat! I’ll fix it anyway, and then you can have it or not, as you like.”

I stood up and placed my sewing on the table by the lamp.

“Sit down,” he said. “Just for awhile, sit down.”

It wasn’t till then that I began to freak out.

“Go on,” he said. “Sit down.”

I lowered myself back slowly into the chair, watching him with fright. He had never looked so…….distraught before. He had finished the second drink and was staring down into the glass, frowning to himself. He seemed to be bracing himself for something

“Listen,” he said. “I’ve got something to tell you.”

I stared at him in horror. “What…….what is it? What’s the matter?”

“This is going to be a bit of a shock to you, I’m afraid,” he said. “But I’ve thought about it for a while and I’ve decided the best decision to do is tell you now. I hope you won’t blame me too much.”

And he told me. It was over in a few minutes, but those few minutes were the longest in my life. I sat there in a dazed kind of horror as he went further and further away from her with each word. This is not true. This can’t be true.

My first instinct was not to believe any of it, to reject it all. Maybe, if I went about mybusiness and acted as though I hadn’t been listening, then later, when I sort of woke up again, I might just find that it was just a bad dream.

“I will get supper.” I managed to whisper.

I couldn’t feel my feet touching the ground. In fact, I couldn’t feel anything at all, except a slight nausea, a desire to vomit and a cold numbness inside. I went inside the cellar and pulled out a leg of lamb from the deep freezer, before walking upstairs, holding the thin bone-end of it with both my hands, and as I went through the living-room, I saw him standing over by the window with his back to her, and I stopped.

“For God’s sake,” he said, facing the outside of the window. “Don’t make supper for me. I’m going out.”

Suddenly, it all came back. Anger and fury hit me like a cannonball. This was real. At that point of time, I simply walked up to him and brought the leg of lamb down onto Patrick’s head as hard as I could. Patrick crashed onto the carpet.

The violence of the crash, the noise, the small table overturning, helped bring me out of my shock. I came out slowly, shivering and surprised, and I stood for a while, blinking at the body, still holding the piece of meat tight with both hands. What had I done?

I stood there for a while, dazed.

All right, I told myself. So I’ve killed him.

It was extraordinary, now, how clear my mind became all of a sudden. I began thinking very fast. As the wife of a detective, I knew quite well what the penalty would be. It’s all right. It would be a relief. On the other hand, what about my baby? What were the laws about murderers with unborn children? Did they kill then both-mother and child? Or did they wait until they were born? What did they do?

I didn’t know. And I certainly wasn’t prepared to take a chance. I had to have an alibi.

After a while, I knew what to do. I placed the meat into the oven and switched it on, before going into the bedroom to tidy myself up. After that, I rushed to the grocery to buy some peas, potatoes and a piece of cheese cake, before returning home. That would be my alibi.

After that, everything went according to plan. I called the police, they came and went through the usual procedure of taking photographs and stuff. I just sat there and pretended to be sad. After a while, I offered them the lamb, which they ate gratefully. My lord! Are they stupid! They had eaten the only evidence! I could not help but suppress a grin.

So that was it. I just hope that the police wouldn’t find out what I had done. After all, I don’t really think I will be caught. The policemen were just about as bright as my socks.

Got to go!

Love, Mary Maloney